Swiss neutrality translates into a piquant portrait of the balancing act between paranoia and willful denial in Zurich-born playwright Max Frisch’s 1953 satire, “Firebugs.”
A gullible capitalist, Gottlieb Biedermann, allows a pair of drifters to take refuge in his attic despite his well-founded suspicions that they may be responsible for the series of fires that have been engulfing the city. Biedermann, who is ruthless in business (his dismissal of a longtime employee led to his former worker’s suicide) worries that confronting the gasoline-hoarding duo will make him appear rude and unduly nervous. The result is that he, his daffy wife, Babette, and their stressed-out maid, Anna, all end up in hell–where the arsonists reign. The first act is like a comedy of manners scripted by Bertolt Brecht, while the Hades of the second act recalls George Bernard Shaw’s “Don Juan in Hell.”
The shifting tonalities of Frisch’s clever script are difficult to get right, even though this play ought to resonate with tremendous impact in the age of phantom WMDs and real terrorist threats. Director Laurence Bryan’s production for National Pastime Theater and Clock Productions tries to update the piece for the era of hyper-surveillance. It does this by using Brechtian devices, playing scenes on a monitor that mimics a security camera, and incorporating the bumbling chorus of firemen/guardians as video-only apparitions–a comment on how powerless bureaucratic figures are in times of crisis.
But there is a distinctly undercooked aura in this show. Jack McCabe’s Biedermann should be a flustered Everyman, but McCabe opts for high-octane bellowing and petulance, which makes his journey from suspicion to complacency to outright collusion irritating rather than intriguing, particularly since the acoustics of the space are unforgiving to high-volume histrionics. Arch Harmon and Mark Habert as the dastardly duo have some nice chemistry but their manipulation of Biedermann’s household is, like the rest of the show, too ham-handed to underline Frisch’s more subtle points about how human fears (particularly fear of social faux pas) can be manipulated to evil ends.
Through Aug. 13 at National Pastime Theater, 4139 N. Broadway. Tickets are $10-$20 at 773-327-7077.
Soul Theatre makes its first appearance in Chicago with “Last of the Red Hot Lovers,” Neil Simon’s decidedly dated comedy about Barney Cashman, married proprietor of a fish restaurant who is desperate for a midlife affair. The play unfolds in three acts–one for each stereotype of womanhood. Elaine is the hard-as-nails opportunist, Bobbi is the flaky bubbleheaded singer/actress who goes from being a freak magnet to an outright freak, and Jeanette is the neurotic, uptight wife of Barney’s best friend. For the Freudians in the crowd, each of these assignations takes place in the Manhattan apartment of Barney’s mother, a space beautifully realized on the Chopin stage by set designers Sebastien Grouard and Daniel Pelling.
This play premiered at the tail end of the ’60s, and it feels like Simon’s desperate attempt to cash in on the sexual revolution without losing his Borscht Belt-to-Broadway credibility. But if one can get past the misogyny and the mustiness of the storyline, there are still some laughs to be wrung out of the script. The performances are excellent across the board, particularly David Murphy’s suitably shlumpy Barney and Ravi Batista’s piranha-witted Elaine. “Are you as cold as you seem?” Barney asks Elaine. “I need gloves to take off my underwear,” she replies.
Directors Kurt Naebig and Dani Prados keep the show on track, never winking at the age of the material.
Through July 29 at Chopin Theatre, 1543 W. Division St. Tickets are $15-$22 at 312-777-1245.
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